


Your Ex-Lover is Dead

by LittleBaguette



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1990s, Angst, Arguing, Cigarettes, Comparing scars, F/M, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lost Love, Making Up, New York City, Post Cold War, Size Difference, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-02-14 22:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13017519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBaguette/pseuds/LittleBaguette
Summary: New York. November 1993.Monaco is finally recognised as a sovereign nation by the UN.Russia is still healing after the dissolution of the USSR.Two old friends meet again after a near century-long separation, express their grievances, and learn to forgive each other.





	1. Gosh, it was strange to see you again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody! 
> 
> Happy Birthday to me ;u; I wanted to write this fic as a treat to myself for my birthday- and, after all, I had been meaning to write a RussMona fic for the _longest_ time omg I'm happy I finally got to it. 
> 
> **For context:** Russia and Monaco were allies between the 1870s-1917. It was a rather irrelevant alliance, but this was mainly stengthened by the friendship between the Romanov and Grimaldi royal families.  
>  Naturally, with the Romanovs killed off in 1917, all links between Monaco and Russia were cut and no official ties were renewed until the fall of the USSR.  
> This fanfiction takes place after this period of silence and nothingness, where Russia and Monaco meet again after abandoning their friendship and romantic affairs. Russia for the sake of the Revolution and his people, Monaco for the livelihood of her small country. Angst and Hurt/Comfort ahoy!
> 
> Ivan Braginsky => Russia  
> Angélique de la Roche => Monaco 
> 
> Title is a reference to a Stars song of the same name (linked beneath the title card of Chapter 1)
> 
> Thanks to Froggy, Fairy, Gluten, Snow, and Blue for proofreading or providing inspiration for this!  
> An even bigger thanks to [**Julia**](http://aph--lietuva.tumblr.com/) for RPing with me and providing me with a basis for the plot line and a bunch of great paragraphs she graciously allowed me to use ♥ 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> Baguette♥
> 
> PS: If you actually _do_ enjoy this fanfiction, please feel free to reblog its promo post on Tumblr! Click right [**here**](https://baguettedraws.tumblr.com/post/168589473784/you-never-wrote-back-accused-the-small-woman)! ♥

 

[[♣](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8SrDoRvWRE4)]

 

_New York. November 1993._

  
Angélique was relieved.

She held the papers that secured her country's status as a member of the United Nations dearly, holding the leather binder close to her chest as she walked out of the main amphitheatre.

The small woman was letting her nervous state simmer down after the effort she had made to appear prim and proper for the cameras.  
The deed was done. Monaco was recognized as a member of the UN. She could finally go home and rest easy, unconcerned with the rest of the world's woes for another while. All she wanted to do now was to return to her hotel, change out of her business clothes, and _relax._ Feliciano had offered to take her out for dinner to celebrate after all this. She couldn’t refuse such an offer.

On her way out, Angelique was caught in a wave of Nations that were packed into one of the elevators. Squished against one of them, she let out a slight squeak, holding the leather binder to her side as her body pressed against that of one of her fellow nations.   
She looked up to him, wanting to apologise. 

“Excuse m-” she said softly, cutting herself off and freezing when she recognised exactly _who_ it was she was pressed to.

Of all the people she could have ended up against, it had to be _him_.

Ivan Braginsky looked down on the small woman with tired eyes when the sweet scent of Chanel perfume invaded his personal bubble.  
So _she_ was here. With her territory being nothing more than a tiny speck on the map, one would question the validity of her presence- another proof that the UN as an institution was nothing but a waste.  
Monaco wasn't even a real country, it was a bank that owned some land. Casinos. A race track. Nothing more.

The Russian sniffed and swallowed hard. He wasn't certain if he actually was that angry with her... Or if he was just angry that his body remembered what it felt like to have Miss Monaco close like this- and that she wasn't _his_ . No, she seemed to have been more into the Hollywood type in recent years. He hadn't forgotten that, and it _still_ made his stomach twist.

Angélique felt fearful for a moment. Did Ivan truly turn against her? Did he hate her? No... this wasn't the Ivan she knew. _Her_ Ivan was princely, educated and gentlemanly- not this cold, _monstrous_ bear of a man who glared at her.

He didn't say anything, neither did she. They both stood there awkwardly,the other nations in the elevator blissfully unaware of their state of discomfort.

She was shoved again as the elevator moved, grabbing onto Ivan's belt for balance. Oh _God_ .  
Cheeks flushed, she looked away from him, glaring behind her at the Nation that forced her into this position. There was a reason she hated crowded elevators-

Ivan’s icy demeanor was instantly broken when she grabbed onto his belt. He looked confused and the tips of his ears colored red as he stared at her.  
Before he could say anything, Angélique’s hand let go of the belt as though she had been burnt. After all this time, she had hoped to greet him in a way that wouldn’t have been so suggestive… yet here they were.

Once the elevator came to a halt, she dashed out, holding her binder to her chest. Her pencil skirt clung to her as she walked away, Louboutin heels thudding against the carpet of the main hall of the UN building. She needed to breathe.  
Unluckily for her, she was stopped by a pair of journalists, forcing herself back into the role of the benevolent, polite and placid young woman while pictures were taken and questions were asked.

She was officially recognized as the world’s smallest nation. How did that make her feel? Were there any plans for the future? What of diplomatic relations with the United States? A hint at her past fling with the American was made, which she brushed off politely. The conversation then took on Monaco’s Royal family, how the Prince was faring, the years of mourning for the late Princess Grace…

Angélique replied to each question as concisely as she could, more than glad that the attention was on her, that she was relevant in the modern world- It made her feel a little smug, too.

In the background of the photos that were taken, one could see a large figure making its way towards the door. No attention was given to Ivan when _he_ left the building. He ignored the prissy little doll as she was given her time to shine under the glow of the American journalists’ camera flashes. After all, he had better things to do. Things to see. People to talk to. Vodka to drink. He didn’t need something as flimsy as _attention_.

In the corner of her eye, Angélique saw the revolving doors spin and Ivan’s hulking figure slip away. A wave of guilt took over her for a moment, her shoulders slumping down as she watched him leave.

“Miss Monaco, is everything ok?” asked one of the journalists, noting the Nation’s split second of mental absence.

“I’m well.” she replied, clearing her throat before she looked back to them “Thank you for your time. I’ll look forward to reading the article.” she told them politely, offering a smile as she excused herself and approached the doors, shrugging on her jacket and staring out the bay windows to find Ivan hailing a taxi, then another, watching the yellow cars drive by and stop without picking him up.

With furrowed brows, the small woman stepped forward only to be stopped by the cheerful chime of a familiar voice calling for her.

“ _Angelina_! There you are!” cooed Feliciano’s voice from over her shoulder, his hand snaking down her arm to take her own smaller one, toying with it between his long fingers before he spoke again, “What were you looking at?”

“... Nothing.” mumbled Angélique before she smiled up at Feliciano- the kind of smile young women at bars gave men who were awkwardly making advances at them. The Monégasque seemed to always be bound to social expectations- it was simply what made her who she was.

Entirely oblivious to this, the Italian grinned and took her arm under his own, patting her hand as he led her towards the doors.

“I owe you dinner, don’t I? To celebrate this!”

With another soft, resigned smile, Angélique chuckled and went along with the darling Italian, knowing better than to fuss about this. This was supposed to be her big day. Finally, Monaco was recognised! Alas, the awkward encounter with her ex-lover dampened it all-

For now, she needed to distract herself.


	2. In that instant it started to pour

Ivan still didn't move through the western world with ease. Everyone either saw him as either a victim of soviet oppression that they needed to take pity on, or as a suspicious power that might turn on them any second now. He was both... He was neither. In any case the recently freed Baltics, Hungary and whatever was left of Gilbert when the wall came down took most of the pity from the other nations. Everyone seemed to think the role of villain suited him better. After all that was the role Alfred made him play in any Hollywood picture he put out there.   
  
He quite liked that people were afraid of him... It made them leave him alone. He had some healing to do.

Sitting at the furthest barstool in the dimly lit jazz lounge of the Plaza Hotel, Ivan made a shot glass twirl absentmindedly in his large, calloused fingers. A sigh escaped his lips as he miserably recalled the day’s events. Seeing Angélique again after all these years was a bit of a shock to him, to say the least. That spoiled brat. That beautiful, _beautiful_ spoiled brat.   
  
He made stern eye contact with the bartender, tapping his fingers on the counter he was hunched over. With a nod, the hotel employee served him another glass of vodka, ticking off a mark on the bill he’d hand him later.

Ivan took a sip of his vodka and stared into his glass, silently contemplating calling the embassy and taking the next plane to Moscow. His presence wasn’t needed nor _wanted_ in the United States. Hell, it took him six taxis before he found one that was willing to take him back to his hotel. _Stupid Americans…_

Ivan glanced up and around him curiously. There were barely any other Nations in the lounge... barely any humans, either. It was just him, the bartenders, and a few lonely figures here and there, worn businessmen who needed to keep their minds off things. He swore he saw Finland settled in one of the booths on his way in… He didn’t want to have to talk to him.

His eyes fell upon the entrance, and almost as though fate had decided to play a cruel trick on him, the lights of the hallway backlit the shadow of the curves that had been pressed against him earlier that day.

 _Angélique_ ? Here? But... _why_?

Brows knitted together, he looked away. He finished his glass and kept his eyes low, hoping that, perhaps, the small woman wouldn’t notice him.

Angélique made her way towards one of the booths that looked over the city in the more dimly lit corners of the lounge. There was no need for her to interact with anybody for now. She didn't feel like celebrating her newfound status as a member of the UN with people who condescended to her... She wanted a drink and a smoke after the dinner she previously had with Feliciano. Without him.

The dinner had been… passable. But she wasn’t sure she was in the mood to enjoy Feliciano’s excitable, obnoxious yet _admittedly_ charming personality for tonight. She wanted to be alone, for now.

She approached the bar, four or five stools away from Ivan, her shoulders only slightly rising above the counter as she spoke to the bartender and asked for a martini to be put on her tab.   
It was only as the man complied and rushed off to get her drink that she noticed Ivan again.

Angélique watched him in his large shirt, his poorly-tailored suit’s vest resting in his lap as he hunched his hulking figure over, seeming entirely out of place for such an elegant setting.  
  
He was in a pitiful state, wasn't he? Drinking as if loneliness was an old friend, avoiding the looks of anyone who passed by. All he wanted was his fix of ethanol. Nothing more, nothing less.

Angélique couldn’t help but feel nervous being so close to him. Discreetly enough, she stepped closer and closer, trying not to be seen until she would be ready to talk to him. She wanted to say something useful, relevant- Something to initiate their _retrouvailles_ in a way that was less disgraceful than the incident in the elevator earlier that day.

Ivan was already feeling a slight buzz from the alcohol, letting it seep into his mind to put him at ease, to relax his worn-out soul, somewhat.  When he eventually saw her, it took him a moment to process it was actually her rather than a figment of his imagination, rather than one of his dreams in the past years, of the graceful little bird nestled in his arms- She was actually here.

Turning to the side, he just stared at her. He licked his lips trying to moisten them and make himself able to speak. Still, _what was there to say_? He couldn’t apologise and he knew that she was too prideful to do so herself.

The bartender soon came back with Angélique’s martini, to which Ivan scoffed, turning to the man behind the bar as he motioned to the small woman, a joyless chuckle escaping him.

"You're an irresponsible man, giving her a drink. Look what a _tiny_ thing she is." He wasn't certain why he was doing this. Half of him was mocking her to be cruel because just being in her presence hurt him, and he always became cruel when hurt. The other half had him laughing when there was nothing really funny, which had kept him alive the past century. It had become a habit that was hard to stop.

The things he had seen… He needed to cope with them one way or another, didn’t he?

Angélique was a little hurt by that- After all these years, Ivan still knew that quips about her ridiculous height wounded her…   
With a pout, she looked up to him, an embarrassed expression on her doll-like features. _God_ , those eyes of hers… He hadn’t forgotten those either.

He sighed deeply, shaking his head as he looked away once again before he spoke to her.   
"Are you coming to drink with me?" He grinned weakly to himself, looking down to his empty shot glass.

Angélique had wanted to call out to him and be the first to speak again, to ask him why, for now, and then give in later... But he stole the chance. He took it first.   
The petite woman looked up as she heard him speak, her knees going weak at the sound of his voice for the first time in a near century...   
  
She turned to motion to an empty booth near the tall glass wall in the darkness of the lounge. There, in a remote, quiet corner, was a booth with a view over the terrestrial stars of the New York skyline.     
She didn't want to sit at the bar- her feet wouldn't be anywhere near the ground and she'd feel embarrassed. Red lips parted as she spoke to him   
  
"I... was going to suggest _you_ drink with _me_." she told him rather simply.

Ivan raised his brows at that. How bold of her. Still, he nodded in agreement, but first pointed at her drink.

"Fine, but you're not drinking _that_." he told her, pushing away the crystal glass. "We drink vodka. After all… it is what one drinks with old friends." The grin on his face seemed closer to a grimace, but it was clear he wouldn't listen to any counter arguments. He ordered a bottle of Stoli and two glasses from the bartender. He half glanced at Angelique to see what her reaction was to him whipping out fifty dollars like it was nothing. She had always liked rich men, hadn’t she?

His assumptions were correct. As sweet a girl Angélique could be, money was her one true vice. Her eyes followed the bills- it was a habit, by now. She was a greedy little businesswoman who was a little too sensitive to the sound of bank notes being rustled.

She frowned a little at his other comment. They weren't _friends_ anymore, were they? He abandoned her.

Cheeks a little flushed, she looked up to him through her oval-framed glasses.   
"I can't drink vodka, Ivan, you know this." She told him as she stepped closer to the bar, taking her drink again like a child stealing a cookie from the kitchen table.   
"But... I'm surprised you consider me an old friend."

Ivan rolled his eyes and walked ahead of her to the booth.

"One glass. I insist." It was symbolic somehow for him. In a nation where everyone had done something bad and everyone was hurting, you needed to be able to drink with those around you and postpone the pain for tomorrow. Vodka made brothers out of those who suffered together.   
  
He sat down in the booth and poured her a shot glass of vodka. "I've never taught you how to drink this the Russian way." He ignored her comment about them being friends. He wasn't ready to deal with feelings yet. "Look, I just poured for you, now you pour for me. Never pour for yourself, because only alcoholics pour for themselves." He put the bottle in her small, porcelain-like hands so she could pour for him.

 _Someone's speaking from experience,_ thought Angélique when he mentioned the curse of pouring the drink alone. She didn't voice her thoughts. Perhaps he wouldn't find her witty quips charming anymore… No. Of course he wouldn't.   
Angélique poured him vodka as she'd pour champagne; she always had that finesse and grace in her movements even if she was just pouring him his favourite swill.

After all these years, Angélique was still a graceful, elegant little lady. Ivan felt himself tense up as he watched her move, reminded of the afternoons in her parlor where they sipped expensive tea and he listened to her ramble excitedly about ballet, where they played cards with a pack he had hidden in the breastpocket of his dashing uniform, all while their hot beverages cooled down to the point of being undrinkable. He remembered that Angélique would always be the one to get up to call the maids, kindly asking the service woman to bring them another kettle. He remembered the lovely dresses she wore, the pearls at her neck, the corsets that tightly gripped at her waist-

The idle pleasures of the Bourgeoisie.

When the Monégasque was done with Ivan’s drink, she looked down at the shot he had poured for her, already dreading the taste of what was close to being pure ethanol on her delicate tongue.

  
Manicured fingers picked up the glass as her pale blue eyes glanced up at him, pressing the glass to her lips as she dipped them in the Russian's poison and giving a light whimper at the strength of his liquor.

Just _one glass_ , was it?

"Nonono-" Gently he made her lower the glass, his bear paw of a hand lightly pressing her wrist down, barely touching her, as he knew what a delicate thing she was. "Not like that. First, we toast. A good reason to drink. Then, you exhale, blow all air out deeply- that way you will not get so drunk. Then we go together, bottoms up, in one go."

Those were small shot glasses, she should be fine.   
  
He took his own glass and raised it to her. "Miss Monaco, I toast to your health. To you becoming part of the United Nations. May the clouded years of history give us as many sorrows as there'll be drops in our glass when we finish."   
Then, obviously and theatrically, he exhaled and gestured for Angélique to do the same.

Too embarrassed to refuse now, she humoured him. Her burgundy red nails tapped nervously against the shot glass before she took it and brought it to he painted lips once again.

Ivan shot back the glass of vodka and slammed it back down on the table. Angélique followed hesitantly, swallowing the vodka with a girlish whimper as she felt the liquid roll down her throat like fire. How could Ivan _drink_ this? She almost started crying, both from the strong drink and from the words he spoke- She knew he was exaggerating. He didn’t mean a word of what he said, she was sure. There was something in his voice that was far too cynical for her to believe it.

"You-" she groaned with a pout, pushing the shot glass away from her "Do you even mean anything you just said?"

He shook his head at her. So sensitive. "It's bad manners to ask that. I thought you were such a polite little girl. I do mean those words." His words sounded angry and biting, even if what he was saying was nice. Tone and message often didn't quite match with him. Vodka. You're always with friends if you drink vodka with them.  


He felt his nose prick in the weirdest way, the way it always does when he was about to cry. And he seldom cries.   
He sniffed loudly and swallowed it down. _No tears_. Not for her. Not in front of her.

“I’m not a _little girl_ . I’m a _grown woman_ , I-” stammered Angélique, clearly offended by his words. She huffed and looked away from him. ”You, of all people, should be _well-aware_ of that.”

The Russian looked down on her sternly, exhaling as he closed his eyes and rested his back against the plush velvet of the booth they were in, letting the tension build as his silence was only mulled over by the deep, slow jazzy tones the lounge’s pianist played as he tickled the ivories from the other side of the room.

Angélique looked up to him with pursed red lips, expecting excuses, an explanation, something… Anything. He remained silent- Something men usually did when they were incapable of expressing themselves.   
How foolish of her it was for her to expect him to open up so soon, to apologise for things she was convinced he had done to hurt her, whether he had intended on it or not. He had abandoned her seventy-six years ago without saying goodbye. Without a letter, a telegram, nothing. She had worried herself sick-

1917, the World was at war and from her sheltered ivory tower on the French Riviera, she had desperately sought him out, sending letters upon letters to the Eastern Front, stubbornly leaving her floral perfume imbue the paper, teardrops ruining inked cursive as she begged him for a reply, a sign that he was alive, that he was still _hers-_

Alas, the letters never reached destination or were destroyed upon arrival. She never received a reply. Ivan never wrote back. She thought she could trust him… She believed she mattered, at least to him.

They had been separated for over a century and now, finally, they were together again. Angélique would have been overjoyed if the circumstances hadn’t been so dire. Russia was only recovering from the fall of his Union- Something she was the antithesis of. Monaco was a haven for those who were beyond filthy rich. Russia was a vast territory littered with broken souls.

Taking out her packet of thin cigarettes, Angélique crossed her legs and straightened herself, taking on a more confident position to hide her nervousness. Frail thing that she was, she could only be taken seriously if she spoke as a businesswoman… So she did, taking on the tone she used when negotiating high finances and numbing her emotions to show nothing but her regular poker face when she spoke to Ivan once again. Breathing in, breathing out.

“I believe we have many things to discuss, Monsieur Braginsky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit long- I apologise for the awkward cutoff at the end. I'm working on chapter 3 as we speak! I truly hope you'll enjoy this! It's gonna get good ♥ I'm super excited to be sharing this fic with you, and if you've read this far you already have my eternal gratitude!
> 
> If you're enjoying this fic so far, feel free to give its promo post a reblog on Tumblr! Click right [**here**](https://baguettedraws.tumblr.com/post/168589473784/you-never-wrote-back-accused-the-small-woman)! ♥


	3. We've met before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wew, I'm clearly on a roll with this fic! 
> 
> Anywho, this chapter references a public romantic affair between America and Monaco that probably happened in 1956 (also a spoiler for my AmeMona fic, which I'll link you to when I actually post it ;u; )- Just so that's clear. Ivan's relation to Alfred is left in the dark, but feel free to fill in the blanks yourself :3c
> 
> This chapter feels a bit jumpy to me. The characters' feelings are very confusing and I'm doing my best to keep track of them being dumb and flip-flopping between regrets, bitterness and longing.  
> I'd like to thank Blue for proofreading this for me! You're a peach! ♥
> 
> As usual, if you appreciate this fic, feel free to share the promo post [**here**](https://baguettedraws.tumblr.com/post/168836478009/your-ex-lover-is-dead-read-on-ao3-newest) on Tumblr! Feedback is always appreciated, as are kudos! Thank you so much for hanging around! ♥

So it had come so this. A Russian, a Monégasque, an elegant jazz lounge, and a velvet-lined booth hidden within its depths. It could almost be the beginning of a bad joke, or perhaps a romance novel, had the stars aligned in any other way than this.

The pianist continued to play his slow, mellow songs in his corner of the lounge, songs that reminded Angélique of simpler times. Times she felt guilty remembering when Ivan was here with her. Often she wondered what life would have been like had things been different, if they had stayed together. If he hadn't abandoned her.

If she hadn't abandoned him.

Angélique fiddled with her pack of cigarettes, plucking one out to light it later, hesitating before she decided against offering him one. He wouldn’t want her cigarettes anyway, now, would he?

Leaning against the back of the booth, Ivan glowered down upon the smaller Nation with a rather tired look. So she was going to use her _business_ tone with him? He could hardly believe it.

He licked his lips and poured another shot of vodka, this time for himself. His affinity for the drink was a secret to nobody, of course. Angélique could keep any potential comments to herself.

“ _Monaco_ ,” he began, using her national title rather than her name, thus digging the trench between them further and further. He leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table between them as he idly picked up his glass, lilac eyes falling to its translucent content to avoid looking at the woman before him.  
“What does it feel like, finally being a _real_ Nation?”

Angélique stared up at him, more than thrown off by how cold he was being. How cruel of him- First her height, now her status… Clenching her fist around her cigarette lighter, she huffed at his vile, though successful, attempt at getting under her skin.

She couldn't exactly throw a fit at him for that. She wanted to talk to him, to discuss what had, or rather hadn't, happened in the past decades… He wasn't Francis. It wasn't as though she could get away with being a brat.

“The principality of Monaco has been a sovereign state for the longest time.” she told him, trying to level her tone, taking a pause to bring her cigarette to her lips and flicking at her lighter to bring the flame to it. A deep breath of toxic nicotine was enough to soothe her anxiety, if only for a second- Why was Ivan making her so nervous? Why couldn’t she bring herself to remain calm?

“Is that so?” Ivan muttered, looking her over with a dull, stern expression on his face.

“Yes. That _is_ so.” she replied immediately, blowing out her smoke in a fine, pale grey ribbon “I’m a member of the United Nations, now. No one can refute my title anymore.”

Unimpressed, Ivan drank from the glass he was holding as he looked her over, studying the way she carried herself, the way she held her cigarette and smoked from it, how she seemed to use it to soothe herself nervously.  
Her dress was lovely, he’d have to admit. She had changed out of her business clothes, swapping her blouse and pencil skirt for a more flattering dress to go out for dinner. It was a lovely red dress with a sweetheart neckline, just teasing at the promise of cleavage- Ivan didn’t stare at her chest for now. He refused to give her a reason to snap at him. Instead, he noted how her dress clung to her corset-trained waist. Other female nations had healed from the centuries they had spent under corsets, why hadn’t Angélique? Clenching his teeth, Ivan reminded himself he shouldn’t be so concerned. He didn’t look any lower than that and returned to pouring himself another glass of vodka with an uninterested sigh.

“You seem proud of yourself.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” replied the small woman as she tapped her ashes into the ashtray on the table, a pout on her lips as she looked back to Ivan, sizing him up.

He snorted humourlessly, shaking his head as he spoke “Well, at least people will know who you are for a week or two.”

With that, he drank again, allowing the alcohol to give him the guts to be a little more cruel, a little more bitter. He had his own reasons to do so… After all, he had seen her dangling off the arm of a certain American a few decades back. It left a nasty taste in his mouth. He believed he was entitled to this.

“So, tell me, whose lap did you sit in to get into the UN?”

Angélique didn’t reply to that immediately. She simply stared at the man before her with a flustered, frustrated expression on her face. How dare he... How _dare_ he? To make such a crude comment- She almost wanted to empty the disgusting contents of the bottle between them over his head for that. _Almost_ .  
Instead, she glared at him furiously, blowing the last of her smoke  before she crushed her cigarette into the ashtray, cheeks flushed as she let her anger brew, then simmer down for a moment.

She was a _woman_. She could hold onto her grudges forever, could she not?

Ivan felt rather conflicted- both satisfied he had made her uncomfortable yet somehow nervous that she’d hold it against him.  
His worries would have to wait. At that moment, he felt a little smug. Oh, did he strike a nerve? Was he right? It was a shot in the dark, a cruel jab at the fact they both knew what a pretty girl she was, how she could get anything she wanted just by simpering and twirling her hair around her finger. Ivan knew this very well.  

“I did no such thing. I didn’t come here to be insulted, _Russia_ .” she snapped back at him once she returned to her initial position, crossing her legs over, then her arms as she glared at him.  
“How dare you even assume such a thing?” She huffed, lowering her tone to a near whisper “I got into the UN on perfectly official terms.”

“You play by the rules when it suits you.”

“How would you know? You haven’t spoken to me in a _century_.”

Ivan stared at her as she snapped at him, his large shoulders slumping a little as he realised how long it actually had been. No, not a century- this one was barely over, and the decade in which he had left her had been close to its end itself. The Russian frowned and averted his gaze. He heard the disappointment, the pain in her voice. He almost felt guilty.

She slipped her martini glass closer to her and twirled the olive impaled on the toothpick between her fingers before she caught it between her teeth and chewed on it as she, too, avoided looking at the man sitting across from her.

The silence was unbearable. It was as though the weight of the years of their mutual absence has placed itself upon their shoulders, crushing their souls and ruining their minds, making them bitter and resentful rather than grateful they had found each other once again. They had been close friends- _lovers_ , even. Angélique couldn’t help but press her thighs together as she reminded herself of that fact.  
Swallowing her olive, she dared to speak first, looking up to Ivan to gauge his reaction.

“What happened, Ivan- No, I know what _happened_ , politically speaking. I mean… What happened to us- To _you_? Look at you.” She breathed, eyes lowered to the scarf around his neck, the one that perpetually hid the scars history had left upon his skin. She saw him in his miserable, disheveled state, a skilled eye noting how ill-fitting his suit was, how loose the tie he wore had been tied, she saw the cheap watch on his wrist and the markings on the back of his calloused hands… Were those tattoos? On him? Oh, Ivan…

“Why do you care?” he asked her suspiciously, helping himself to yet another glass of vodka, looking down upon his glass with tired eyes “You’re a smart girl. One would assume you’d have moved on after all this time, no?”

Angélique couldn’t help but let out a quiet whimper at those words, how he complimented her, yet seemed eager to tear it from her right away. She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, her cheeks heating up as she dared to speak again.

“Because I cared for you,” she told him. “I cared for you and I sent you letters upon letters over the years. You never replied, so I stopped. Because you didn’t care about me anymore. Because you didn’t even open the letters in the first place.”

“I wasn’t-”

“You never _wrote back_ .” She accused him, small hands balled into fists, “All the letters I sent you- You never replied. I _wanted_ you to reply! I _wanted-_ ”  
  
She cut herself off as her eyes fell back to Ivan’s worn, tired face. He watched her with a mournful expression before he let out a sigh, shaking his head

The letters… He couldn’t reply to them. He didn’t receive many- some had even been sent back to her. His revolution, he remembered, had been successful. The Bourgeoisie had been torn down from its high ground; the Romanovs had been _taken care of_. Ivan was born anew, converted as a comrade of the Party.

He had loved her, yes. He had _loved_ her. He had loved and adored her for _years-_ Alas, there and then, at the time of the Revolution, she represented everything he had come to hate.

Ivan looked ahead as he told the woman before him words he knew she’d revile as he’d say them, for as much as he had once loved her, she often needed a reminder.  
  
“You can’t always have what you _want_ , Angélique.”

His voice was much softer than it had been before. A storm was brewing within him. Something he wanted to suppress. Gulping down yet another shot of vodka, he let his fist fall to the table, making Angélique flinch a little before he spoke again.

So it seemed they were having this conversation, it was happening. Ivan could feel ugly rage burn in the pit of his stomach. "Don't you know me at all Angelique?" He stared at the table and his words were a monotonous drone.  
"You made no effort to see things from any other than a rich girl’s perspective. I wanted to write to you about the wonders of structuralist art, my new architecture plans, even the clothes Vavara Stepanova designed. I was sure you’d like them- I wanted to share my new world with you, hoped you would like it at least a _bit_." He had to squeeze the table now. His knuckles turned white but his voice was still calm.

Angélique stared up at him, her face as pale as his hands were.

“Ivan-”

"You were so _keen_ to leave me because you never tried to understand communism. Poor people make you uneasy. You go where the money is. So you parade around with _him_ of all people. You liked me gone but by all means leave me the blame!"

Angélique looked away from him as he hit each nail right on the head. He was right- Poor people _did_ make her uneasy.  She _did_ constantly follow money regardless of her own morals, and _yes_ . Yes. She had gone off and pranced around, hanging off _his_ arm like the perfect little trophy wife she had always been expected to be.

She never knew that Ivan would ever become aware of her public affair with Alfred, however. It only lasted a few months, maybe a year- Why did he care?

She wanted to cry.

Still, she held it back, painted red lips trembling as she looked down and away from Ivan, her breath halting as she forced herself to remain calm. She couldn't afford to be seen as hysterical like this. Not now. Not here. If they had been somewhere more private…

Her face softened slightly as she looked away, eyes falling to his shot glass as she grimaced, visibly embarrassed that he had brought up something that had happened such a long time ago.  
"I had to make the right alliances. I have no army. What did you expect? Oh, don't you _dare_ bring up Alfred- Don't tell me you believed that."

Ivan seemed distant for a moment, lips pursed as he watched her discomfort, feeling a slight pang of guilt clutch at his heart. He realised he had raised his voice a little and he swore he caught some glances coming their way, people watching a lovers’ quarrel curiously, voyeuristically waiting for things to escalate. Ivan was a discreet man, he didn’t want any problems- He hoped Finland in the corner over there hadn’t been eavesdropping. He almost felt paranoid- Over _this_. It was as embarrassing for him as it was for her.

"We shouldn't do this here." He mumbled, his eyes going from Angélique’s doll-like face to the entrance of the lounge. Going to a hotel room together seemed suggestive, but he didn't really care at this point. All he wanted was to be done with it.  
"We need to talk in private. Let's go to my room." His voice was still a bit strained from what he held back. From the things he still wanted to say.

"... Let's go to mine," she immediately insisted. It was safer for her to go to her suite rather than his room. She'd feel more comfortable on familiar grounds. They could sit on the couch in the living room or smoke on the balcony if it came to that. The bed wouldn't be in sight. She didn't want to be in a room with a bed with him until they made up.

 _If_ they made up.

"I'm... I need to trust you if I am to go to your room like that. Come to mine instead. Please."  
  
At least she still knew how to say 'please'. She was still a _polite_ little lady.

Ivan nodded gravely and got up. He took the vodka bottle with him- He had paid for it, after all. He turned to her and gestured for her to take the lead, the same movements he had once used as a gentleman, letting the lady walk before him. With a pained expression, Angelique looked away, taking her little clutch purse as she got up and walked ahead for Ivan to follow.

So he did, faithfully walking after her, looking over her petite stature like a wolf stalks the rabbit he wishes to devour for dinner. Any person who may have seen them from an outsider’s perspective might have believed this… But, no. Angélique was safe.

Ivan would never hurt her. Not really.


	4. When you have nothing left to burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This baby took a looooong time to come out! I apologise for that ;o;  
> To make up for it, this chapter is pretty meaty :3c
> 
> This chapter contains more insight on Angélique and Alfred's past affair and how it didn't exactly work the way people believed it did. Note that I'm _not_ trying to villainize Alfred for this fic! He'll show up in later chapters, perhaps, but for now you'll have to take my word for it. 
> 
> As usual, big thanks to Blue for helping me out with grammar and whatnot! You're a peach! ♥
> 
> As for you, dear reader, enjoy! ♥

Ivan had known stronger women in his lifetime.

His sisters, first of all. Katyusha had led armies into battle while remaining a firm, all-powerful motherly figure for her siblings. Natalya was quite the fighter as well. Both of them  had his respect and admiration regardless of the politics that strengthened or loosened the ties between their countries.

He had also known Erzsébet who, like Katyusha, was no stranger to the battlefield.

Strong women with an iron will surrounded Ivan and he had grown to see them eye to eye, beings that were his equal in strength.

Angélique, however, was a weak, frail, _delicate_ little thing, almost to the point where it was ridiculous. She had been brought up as a little lady, dressed in gorgeous dresses, offered french perfume and silk ribbons for her champagne-coloured hair- Angélique had been polished as a perfect little porcelain doll from day one. It was Francis’ doing, really. He wanted a pretty little plaything, so he made her into one, and for most of history she had been entirely devoted to him and his desires, desperate for his approval, his protection, his _love_.

Angélique was weak. It was how she was made. Some nations were weaker than others and Miss Monaco got the short end of that stick.

What Angélique lacked in physical and mental strength, she made up for in craftiness, diligence, and logic. She was an intelligent woman and God knows how _vital_ it is for men to be graced with the presence of intelligent women. Ivan knew this. He had been blessed with her trust and adoration decades ago.  
He had lost it, it seemed. And now, they were going to _attempt_ to mend what had been broken between them.

It was amusing, really, how the times had changed since they last saw each other.  
Last time Ivan saw Angélique, her skirts reached her ankles and she would only dare show her dainty shoulders when the evening allowed it. Nowadays she wore her dress at the knee, letting it hug her pinched-in waist as the tailored fabrics twirled around her shapely legs.

The sound of her expensive heels thudded against the carpeted floors of the corridor past the upper levels of the hotel, leading to Mademoiselle's suite.

Ivan took his time, slowing down his gait to avoid walking past her as he knew his long legs would always easily catch up with her rapid pace. He knew better than to remind her of her height once again- He had already done so cruelly and didn’t intend on continuing… At least for now.

He was angry when he was hurt, and when he was hurt, he’d turn to cruelty as a defense mechanism. What was there to defend here? It wasn’t as though Angélique had shown any aggressive behaviour towards him- bratty entitlement aside, of course. Ivan could always survive that. He should.

The Russian’s presence behind her was familiar yet intimidating. Angélique knew it wasn't good for her to be talking to him again, but... They had to talk it out. Neither could remain silent after all these years. Not after what they had done, what they had been.

Swiping her card in the slot against the doorknob, Angélique let out a sigh and pressed her door open, glancing back up to Ivan before she stepped in, allowing him after her in her lavish suite.  
There was a bedroom hidden behind another door, and a living room where she could receive business partners, as she had intended on doing so while she was in New York. There were two couches and a coffee table, a desk and decorative plants along with a small table with a boiler set upon it, should she wish to make herself some tea. The room was hidden from Ivan's eyes for now. He could only witness the desk and the paperwork set upon it along with a laptop and a collection of floppy disks.  
  
Angélique was a businesswoman, now. No matter how people wanted to paint her as an idle rich girl... She loved her money. She worked for more.  
  
"Forgive the mess- I'll take care of it. You go sit down, alright?" she told him, motioning to the couch like the good hostess she was. "I'll be yours in a minute."

Ivan let himself fall down on the couch heavily. He had said what he'd wanted to say down at the bar really. Now he felt heavy, sad and tired. He wondered if there was anything to be gained here, anything to be said.  
He put the bottle on the table, but he didn't feel like drinking. Instead, he watched her fuss about the room and organise her paperwork and whatnot. It seemed so mundane and useless to care about a mess in a situation like this.  
  
"Just leave it and sit with me." His voice sounded kinder than before. "Or do you have state secrets lying about?" He chuckled dryly, hoping she’d appreciate his attempt at being civil despite the anger that had brewed within him.

"Not state secrets, no." She replied as she stacked up her paperwork and shove it into a thick folder "As if anybody would trust me with written proof of anything like that." She added, muttering under her breath.  
  
Once she was done, she looked back to Ivan and stood next to him. She was, again, barely taller than he was sitting down- it was embarrassing rather than endearing, this time. She quickly looked away, arms crossed defensively.  
  
"So now you're being sweet to me?" She asked, pausing and letting the silence seep into their conversation before she eventually broke it, biting her lip before she spoke again. "... we can't exactly pretend the past century didn't happen. You changed, Ivan. I couldn't follow."

"I'm being _polite_ ." He put his head in his hand because it felt heavy. He felt drowsy and distant. Usually he only reached this state of numbness if he was really drunk. He knew he should speak.  
"I didn’t just change, like it was all _my_ idea. It could've been great..." He gestured desperately. "But did you think it was my idea what happened after? How it turned out to be? I felt as though I was my own hostage."  
His voice cracked and then sounded darker. "Millions of people died. Worked to death or made to _disappear_ . We lived in fear, we starved. I have seen the Gulag from the inside Angélique. All that time I could only bear it if I thought someone somewhere might care. I really hoped you might care."  
When he next looked at her his eyes seemed a bit wild. "But you didn't... I saw the photos in the magazines we were sent, you were hanging off the arm of the only man that wanted me dead more than my own leader did."

He was bringing Alfred into this again.

Of  course he was. It fucking _mattered_.

Angélique clenched her teeth as he spoke, feeling her blood boil beneath her skin. His accusations wounded her, they truly did. What did he expect her to do? Abandon her luxurious lifestyle, give up everything she had worked so hard for… to live a life of humble poverty at his side? Did he expect her to throw out her royal family, to tear down the lavish hotels Charles III had built to secure the status of the principality, her status as a haven for the elites? Ivan was a foolish, selfish man if he believed she was ready to put her very existence on the line for the broken ideals he had held in the past century.

And again, he brought it all back to her past relationship with Alfred. _Idiot_. She believed him to be smarter than to believe that. Smart enough to understand how she worked, how she used people around her to protect herself.

" _Stop that_ . You don't _know_ what happened between Alfred and I-" she scoffed at him "It lasted less than a few years and it was all for the cameras! I didn't _love_ him, Ivan! I thought you were less _stupid_ than to believe some stupid glamour photos where I was just Alfred's little _trophy wife_ !" She hissed at him, stomping her little foot pathetically, seeming only as threatening as an angry wet cat, "So _stop it_ ! Don't talk about things you know nothing about! Don't you dare mention him!"  
  
She was visibly upset that his only knowledge about how she had fared during the past century boiled down to her pretty dresses and her relationship with America. She was uncomfortable with the way he looked at her too, feeling like he judged her actions- He probably thought she was a _whore_ , didn't he? She didn't blame him. After all, it was almost as if her entire life depended on men taking pity on her and how attractive she was to them.

Ivan frowned at her words, holding his hands together as he was hunched over, glaring back at her when she had hissed at him. _Whore_. He thought about that word. He thought about calling her that horrendous word. He wanted to. But he couldn’t. Somewhere deep down, he cared for her and couldn't bring himself to tear her down like that.

Yes, he _cared_ for her. He had once loved her, all those years ago- He couldn’t act as though all could be forgotten, all could be cleansed. If he hadn't cared he wouldn't have allowed rage to fester in his gut, to send cyanide coursing through his veins when he looked at her, at the doll she was, when he glared at the porcelain goddess before him.

Angélique stepped back a little, noticing the glare and feeling vaguely threatened by it. Ivan knew how to unsettle people around him, and the small woman hated it. Tensing up, she looked over to him with trembling lips.

"... Don't look at me that way. You're scaring me."

Ivan shook his head, he didn't want to scare her at all. That was the last thing he needed: another person who was afraid of him. Instead, he stared at his feet with a look of guilt plastered on his face. He just wanted her to apologize. Apologize for giving up on him, apologize for not waiting for him like a soldier’s wife. Apologize that she had run off with that American _dog_ for her own selfish desires.

"I’m not trying to scare you. It just… it almost seemed personal. People assumed I had forgotten about you because of how irrelevant you were on the international scene. Enter America and his obsession with the spotlight… and you, Monaco, you followed.” he told her with a strained, hoarse voice “It was as though you wanted to insult me.”

The way he said her name made her tick. _Monaco_ . Not _Angélique_. As though they had officially lost all intimacy, all hope of friendship. She almost whimpered at his accusation, her heart sinking when he admitted he was hurt, somehow.

"It had nothing to do with you. I had been told to forget you for about thirty years by then- You had turned into someone who would hate me, _Russia_ ." she accused, giving him a taste of his own medicine. She wouldn't simper for _Ivan_ if that was what he wanted. Walking over to the front of the couch, she dared to approach him again, lowering her guard while still keeping a certain distance as she gave her excuses.  
"... I was just doing what I could to be safe. To be secure. My prince married an American girl and the public liked the thought of me being enamoured with Jones. I played a role. And... I was visibly good at it."

Ivan stared at her hand instead of her face when she approached, wanting to hold it for a moment, impulsively driven to seek her touch for the first time since they had last parted. No accidents. Only comfort.  
He had been cruel, of course. Cruelty was his way of coping with his damage. Angélique was the last person to deserve his cruelty… Especially if her affair with Alfred was just a ruse to ensure her survival in past years.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I'm being unfair."  
Ivan didn't argue further. He hated the fact that he apologised to her before she had to him when he felt more entitled to it.  
Instead, he quietly reached to take her tiny hand, holding it in his bear-like paw and giving it a small squeeze, light, gentle, anything to avoid hurting her.

She almost flinched when he took her hand, suddenly afraid he'd crush it and hurt her- though, no, he was as gentle as the day they had met; her hand was still tiny in his own. It would have made her giggle if they weren't in such a dire situation.  
Looking down on him, she relaxed a little, now feeling pity for him rather than resentment. Ivan sighed and shook his head before he spoke.

"I guess that all that time, I hoped you wouldn't listen to them. That you wouldn't forget about me. Because you knew better. Knew _me_ better."  
  
"I never knew what happened to you. I was never told what you did anymore. I only heard Alfred's rants against you when we were together but... I didn't care. I just lived in the moment. I was a doll who just shut up and listened." she told him, wiggling her fingers in his grasp as a response to him squeezing her hand.  
"... I was afraid. I don't have an army, I can't defend myself. You know what I do... I just..." she sighed. "Hang off the arm of any man who'll protect me. And now that I'm in the UN I won't need to do that anymore... officially speaking."

The way he looked up to her was a little sad, somehow taking pity in her. Right. He had forgotten what she did, how she protected herself… He forgot that she was weaker than the other women he knew.

"You're free, now... Still, you're here with _me_ . You came here because you wanted to." He didn't let go of her hand, it had been so long since he had touched someone in a friendly way like this, with nothing double about it. It was _charged_ of course, it would always be charged...Still, it felt nice to hold a woman’s soft hand after all this time.  
  
During the years that had past, when the USSR was still in function, he had sometimes 'kept warm' with those who were under his control. Tolys, Gilbert… Hell, even Erzsébet. But during it, he always knew that if he had given them the choice, they’d have left his house instantly.

They didn’t love him. He didn’t love them. It was a commodity, artificial warmth for an evening or two before they’d return to their functions as national representatives.

Slowly a pained smile tugged at Ivan’s worn features when he gave Angélique’s hand another squeeze.

Angélique gulped and let him hold her, fearing that it was a ruse to yank her into his lap and growl into her ear, along with other things she had grown to expect from men throughout the years. Instead, none of that happened. He just held her hand and breathed deeply, eyes lowered as he contemplated speaking again, his mouth opening and shutting itself as he tried to find the words to express his grief and the guts to actually say them.

“I’m a disgusting old man, Angélique. I’ve suffered and made people suffer. So many people have died because of me, yet I’m here _complaining_ about who you decide to be seen with in public.” He sighed, shaking his head. “All I can dare to ask is: was it worth it?”

“Ivan…” muttered the smaller Nation, lips parted before he interrupted her again.

“It doesn’t matter. Despite me being angry, I… _missed you_ , Angélique. I missed you, and I can leave your room to never be seen again if you want me to leave.

“Iv-”

“I get angry when I’m hurt. It’s what I do. You don’t deserve my anger but-”

“Will you let me speak? For God’s sake…” huffed Angélique, leaning closer to cup Ivan’s face with her free hand, feeling his dry skin and slight, unkempt stubble. Ivan nuzzled into her hand, reveling in the feeling of her gentle touch against him.

 _God_ , he had missed her.

"We were _friends_ , Ivan." she told him, going back to using his human name rather than coldly calling him 'Russia'.  
"... I kept our letters, you know? Alfred found them." She told him as she came a little closer, just enough for him to be able to smell her delicate floral perfume. She sighed deeply and spoke again, lips trembling slightly. "We fought that night. He was completely paranoid- He thought I was double-crossing him because of letters that were decades old. You scared him. You really did- and I was afraid, too."

“I've always been good at scaring people," he chuckled dryly. "If your survival strategy is tricking a _fool_ into protecting you... Then mine is making people check under their beds for me."

He liked this idea of Angélique playing Alfred for a fool, it made him feel like she was on his side. Angélique grinned weakly and nodded, slowly relaxing. Things had smoothened out rather nicely, it seemed… They were talking again like mournful friends rather than bitter ex-lovers as they had done before. Grief always came after anger.

"I think that idiot’s still scared of me!" Ivan chuckled weakly, Angélique followed along, shuffling closer to him again.

That stupid American _should_ be afraid, anyway. Ivan might no longer represent the Soviet Union, but he still had some cards up his sleeve… In fact, now that he could freely move about, the game would only be easier to play.

"He's a presumptuous idiot, of course he's afraid of you," she sighed. "He was immature and selfish. I wonder how anybody could believe I genuinely loved him!" she added with a huff, looking down to the couch next to him for a moment, visibly hesitant before she brushed a lock of hair out of her face and looked down on him regretfully. Could she trust him? After all this time? She wasn't sure.  
  
Angélique eventually sat down, once again feeling incredibly small next to him, vulnerable and delicate.  
Looking up to him again, she relaxed. This was fine. He seemed to have calmed down. She could attempt to trust him again... For now.  
"You're not as angry as you were earlier," she commented. "You were rather cruel to me back there.”

"Well, I was angry. And hurt. You know how I am." Ivan muttered, making an awkward motion.

He didn't really feel like apologizing again. He felt like they had both said things that were true and needed to be said. Even if it _hurt_. Somehow it was better like that, with the truth behind them, they could heal that ugly wound before it got infected.

He had a right to some anger, just as she did.

Silence fell between them. Angélique wasn’t sure what to say, how to reply to his words- she feared she might anger him again and throw the conversation back to where they had begun. Still, she couldn’t help but stay there in silence, lips pressed into a pout as she thought everything over.

She clearly hadn’t expected this. She had expected her day to go smoothly, like any other day, with a start, middle, and end. An early morning spent on business-related phone calls, the afternoon taken by her duties at the UN, and the evening should have been nothing but flirtatious dinner and wine with an all-too-familiar Italian. The last part didn’t go exceptionally well, really, and while she believed that a martini before bed would have soothed her… She didn’t expect meeting up with her ex-lover.

Angélique felt her heart pounding in her chest, fluttering frantically like a panicked bird locked in a cage. She always had been an anxious woman, but this whole situation was nerve-wracking. Her hand was still in his own and he held it gently, still as careful as he once was. They felt raw after all this.

Yes, _raw_. Stripped and flayed, nude and vulnerable for the other’s eyes alone.

Even Ivan felt weak- After having admitted what he admitted to her. After apologising to her when he felt entitled to an apology, himself… Despite this, he didn’t mind letting her see one of his rare moments of weakness. It reminded him of the good old days, when he’d rest his head in her soft lap and she’d stroke his hair, telling him he was a good man as she’d ignore the atrocities he was responsible of.

She was beautiful, back then. All in lace and french perfume, as soft as silk, as gentle as a songbird… She was beautiful nowadays, too. She hadn’t changed much. Her eyes still held that dull shade of blue that reminded Ivan of Chinese porcelain. Her hair was still a pale golden hue, her skin was still soft and warm, holding the promise of each Mediterranean Spring. And her lips…

Her lips were painted the colour of the carnations she loved so much. Her lips were plump and ripe and Ivan just wished he could devour them, then and there.

The Russian had been so caught up in his own thoughts that he had barely noticed how Angélique had gotten close, how she had raised herself to his level, a foot on the ground and a knee on the sofa- He hadn’t noticed her hand creeping away from his loosened hold to rest upon his cheek.

“Ivan…” called the small woman’s soft voice, making him glance up to her, feeling a certain warmth take over him when he finally realized how close she was.

Angélique looked down upon him with a pained expression, as though the weight of the years had finally crashed down on her frail shoulders like a tidal wave. There was a reason their separation hurt so much. Of course there was.

Oh, Lord, how they had _adored_ each other.

The letters they had sent each other, the evenings they spent together, the wine, the playing cards, the seemingly insignificant gifts…

It meant nothing at the time, it was just ridiculous, romantic frivolities. It all felt bittersweet, now.

Ivan’s hand met Angélique’s waist as he nuzzled the palm that cupped his worn face. He pulled her closer- a daring move he didn't really believe she’d go along with at first. She came closer, placing her other hand on his shoulder. There were some things they simply couldn't afford to ruin with words.

Then, without another word, their lips met for the first time in almost a century.


	5. It's a nuclear show but the stars are gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHA. FINALLY. A SMOOCH.  
> Thank you to everybody who has read this fic until here- we're far from being done, I'd say about half-way, but this scene marks a milestone in the plot ♥ 
> 
> Also, look at me, using russian I picked up from the internet! (and confirmed with russian speakers! hooray!) 
> 
> _Zaika/zaika moya_ = Bunny/my bunny, a russian term of endearment. Cyrillic form is **зайка** ♥
> 
> Thanks to Blue again for proofreading!! God, what would I do without you? 
> 
> As usual, if you're enjoying this fic, please consider reblogging this post to spread it around! ♥
> 
> Enjoy!   
> -Baguette

Angélique remembered how often people had asked her what it was, truly, that she saw in Ivan.

Each time people would sputter and gawp at her choice in romantic endeavours, asking her why- Why him, why that _bear_ , that _oaf_? Of all the suitors she could have chosen from…

Perhaps was it simply because, back then, she had found him to be perfectly charming. He was gentlemanly, kind, sensible- of course, she had only known him within the golden cages of palace ballrooms, luxurious hotel suites and lavish boudoirs. She had never seen him when he was in the war room, on the battlefield or as any other place unbecoming of the image of the charming foreign prince that had been painted for him. She gave him no reason to attack or threaten her- quite the opposite, really.   
He was gentle with her, he always had been. Ivan adored beautiful things but was cursed with the habit of destroying them. He never wanted to hurt her. 

That was what she liked. The idea of this man, in all his might, who could ruin her in an instant but simply… didn’t. Couldn’t. She found it flattering.

Even now, he was hesitant to touch her more than he did, despite his deepest desires, the longing that burnt in the pit of his gut- despite that, he held back and let the small woman kiss him.

Angélique kissed him softly yet hesitantly. A gentle token of forgiveness and a timid demand for it in return. His hand on her waist spurred her forward, feeling encouraged to kiss him some more and fall into his lap. Wrapping her arms around Ivan’s neck, she tugged him closer. He indulged in the taste of her lips against his own again, groaning as he pressed against her.

She dared to deepen the kiss, suckling at his lower lip as she pressed herself to him. Only wincing slightly at the taste of vodka on his tongue, she pulled back, panting a little, face flushed, her chest rising and falling with each quick breath she took. Ivan couldn't help but find her disheveled state slightly arousing. He wanted more. He missed this- he missed her. He kissed her again as a wave of guilt took over him.

Oh, _God_ . What were they _doing_?

Kissing like this… here? Now? They had barely forgiven each other's absence. They had barely come together again. It wasn’t _reasonable_ , no… yet It still happened. It felt natural. It was confusing.

They had had drinks, earlier. It probably loosened their inhibitions, encouraged them to fall into each other’s arms once again- Angélique sat in Ivan’s lap, and Ivan could only hold her close, making sure she would never fall, never letting her go again. She felt weak in his arms, mellowed out after their painful discussion- Warm. She felt warm. Arms around him, she pressed herself closer to him again, leaning up for yet another kiss.

“Angélique…” uttered the Russian after she gave him a peck on the lips. A large hand went from her waist to her hand, nuzzling it once more before he spoke again.   
“It’s too soon. We shouldn’t- _I_ shouldn’t.”

Angélique pouted and sighed, holding back another kiss to bury her face in the crook of his neck. She wanted to kiss him again, despite his protests. She wanted to feel her heart swell up again, the warmth taking over her- she had missed this.

She almost felt like crying.

Silence fell upon them again as Ivan stared ahead, breathing deeply as he tried to forget who was curled up in his lap. Angélique was a fool if she believed the timing was right for this- he couldn't afford this. He couldn't afford to risk hurting her, hurting himself, hurting what brittle excuse of a bond lied between them.

“ _Zaika_ _moya_ …” whispered Ivan, tightening is grip on her for a second before he let go, shaking his head. “This… isn't reasonable. I can't do this to you.”

“Ivan…”

Angélique looked up to him again as he slipped a hand under her legs- Her thighs were still as soft and warm as he remembered... No. He couldn't indulge. Not now. Instead, he gently picked her up and set her back down on the couch before he stood.

“I should go.”

The small woman stared up at him, frustrated, embarrassed, and clearly disappointed.

“Why leave now?” she asked him “Didn't you miss me? Don't you want me again?”

Ivan didn't reply, he simply looked away from her, rubbing the back of his scarred neck.

Angélique sighed, shoulders slumping as she looked away, tugging at the hem of her dress to cover more of her legs before she got up. Ivan stepped away.

“I can’t hurt you again.” He told her as she placed a hand on his arm.

“... you’re not hurting me.”

“No, but I will. It's what I do, it’s…”

Ivan cut himself off when he saw the look Angélique was giving him. She knew how to shut him up. Those eyes never failed to make him falter.

“I have to go.”

With that, he left. Heavy steps sounded in the short corridor between the living room and the suite’s front door, to isolate himself, like he deserved.

“Ivan!”

Her voice called to him as his hand rested on the doorknob, stopping his actions before he turned to glance at her over his shoulder. To look at the nymph who graciously forgave his sins.

“I _will_ see you tomorrow.”

With a sniff, Ivan nodded. Little _zaika_ always knew how to get what she wanted _._ She half-smiled at his agreement and finally let him leave.

The sound of the door closing behind him rang as grimly as the lock and key of a prison’s gates. Angélique finally allowed herself to break down into tears, ridding herself of her shameful emotions with each sob. She could only allow herself to do so in the privacy of her own room, alone, when no one would see her.

Despite her tears, she was happy. She was absolutely overwhelmed and elated over this. Ivan was back. _Her_ Ivan was back.

She went for her packet of cigarettes and kicked off her Louboutin heels, laying herself down on the couch where they sat together as she lit the cancer stick she brought to her red lips. Her lipstick had surely faded with their feverish kisses, but she didn't mind, for once. Inhaling her sweet, sweet nicotine, she fondly recalled it all. The warmth, the proximity, the faint taste of vodka on his lips… _God_ , she already missed it.

Exhaling the pale grey smoke, she smiled and couldn't help but let out a weak giggle. Despite their early fighting, the evening had come to a heartwarming close.

Angélique didn't want to let go of him so soon.


	6. You can see it from the surface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop woop! More chapters for this! I'm finishing future chapters as I'm publishing this one ♥
> 
> In this chapter, no Ivan. Just Feliciano, Angélique, and their own complicated issues... I'll explore that ship in another fic :3c This chapter is a bit of a transitional one, a break in the rhythm to allow some breathing room before I dive back into the main subject. I hope it'll be a nice one to read nonetheless! 
> 
> Some Italian vocab slipped in here! (big thanks to [Lavi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/profile) for helping me out!)  
>  _Cara mia_ = my dear (feminine form)  
>  _Caro_ = dear (masculine form)  
>  _Bella_ = beautiful (used as a term of endearment)  
>  _Tesoro_ = treasure (as another term of endearment)  
>  _Va bene_ = Very well
> 
> Also, headcanon, Monaco's human name was _Angelina_ until the mid 1600s, when she came under France's ward (her name was then changed to Angéline and then Angélique, after that). The Italy brothers + Spain still call her Angelina o/ 
> 
> And again, thank you to Blue for proofreading! 
> 
> Enjoy ♥  
> -Baguette

 “ _Angelina_ , there you are!”

Angélique looked up from her cappuccino. _What is it now?_ What it was, really, was an apologetic Italian scooting over to her table, a charming yet embarrassed smile tugging at his handsome features.  
The small woman sighed softly and set down the newspaper she had been reading until Feliciano interrupted her. With raised brows, she looked the slender man over, watching as he fumbled with his collar and leaned over to greet her. Lips pressed into a pout, she spoke up.

“Feliciano. Good morning.”

“Yes, yes, good morning-” he cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair “I’m surprised to see you here. I would have expected you to have breakfast in your room.”

“Well I do enjoy coffee among the common populace, from time to time.” she told him rather dully, watching as he sat down in the chair across from her uninvited.

Still, he was a ray of sunshine, exuding such energy so early in the morning. Angélique didn’t have any purpose in telling him to _get lost_ … Though she should, really. Their dinner date had been less than enjoyable. It was his fault, really, bringing up finances at the dinner table and then accusing her of never seeing the world beyond her ivory tower… They were lucky nobody else in the restaurant seemed to speak italian, nor did they seem to have any interest in a hushed conversation about the state of Italian tax fraudsters.

“ _Cara mia_ , listen,” he brought a hand to his chest and gave her a _look_. Angélique sighed and couldn’t help but wave a hand, allowing him to continue. “I was rude to you last night.”

“ _Rude_?”

“Yes, _rude_. And I’d like to apologise for it.”

Angélique gave a pout and looked away, clearly letting him know she had no time nor interest in his petty excuses. Their relationship was only enjoyable when they left politics out of the equation- Feliciano should know this by now.  
The Italian rubbed the back of his neck before he settled his hands on the table, palms open to her, as though she’d be willing to take any offer for forgiveness he’d throw at her.

“You know how things have been lately. Scalfaro’s been on my back over this...”

“I do know, Feli, I know… I was just upset you brought it up last night.”

“Of course!”

“It’s not really my business. Monaco isn’t an Italian territory, now, is it?”

Feliciano opened and shut his mouth before he gave a chuckle, shaking his head.

“You got me, there, _bella_.”

Angélique rolled her eyes and brought her cappuccino to her lips, looking down thoughtfully before the Italian interrupted her again.

“I’ll make it up to you. How about dinner tonight again? I’ll be on my best behaviour.” he suggested with a charming grin and those same puppy-dog eyes he knew to use on women who would fawn over him.

The Monégasque tutted at him, drumming her nails on the table before she replied.

“You know very well the UN reception is tonight, Feli. You’ll have to find another way to gain my forgiveness for your _rude_ behaviour.”

“How about a favour? Any favour?” he teased, wiggling his fingers.

Angélique perked up at his suggestion, a pout on her painted lips before she spoke up.

“... I might take you up on that. Tell me, you know how to get information out of people quickly, don’t you?”

Feliciano raised his brows at that, looking the small woman over before he shuffled closer warily.  
“What do you want to know?”

“You wouldn’t, by any chance, know the number to the room Russia’s staying in? I need to know.”

The Italian seemed surprised yet relieved, somehow. Chuckling nervously, he nodded, rubbing his chin.

“I have an idea of it, if it helps. I know it’s on the tenth floor because that’s where Ludwig’s room is.”

“Why do you know where Ludwig’s room is?” quipped Angélique, making Feliciano scoff lightly.

“I handed him in some late papers the other night. Anyway, it’s nothing important.” he told her, waving a hand with another chortle. “Braginsky’s room is about three doors down from Ludwig’s, if I remember correctly… Why are you interested in him?” he asked “Does he owe you money?”

“Not money… Not yet.” she told him, wishing to hide her honest intentions behind her businesswoman’s façade. She slipped one of her business cards to him with a pen, nodding over to him.  
“Tell me, which is Germany’s room?”

Oh, the things Feliciano would do for _Signorina_ ’s forgiveness... Shaking his head and grinning, he took her pen and wrote the room number on the back of her business card, compliant as ever as he handed it back to her.  
Taking the card back from between Feliciano’s nimble fingers, Angélique studied what he had written on it.

Tenth floor. Three doors down the corridor from Bielschmidt’s room.

It seemed simple enough.

“What do you want from him, I wonder-” mused Feliciano with a teasing chuckle. He and Angélique were close in many ways, but it would have been hypocritical of him to be jealous when he went around being a flirtatious sap, himself. He wasn’t concerned that _Angelina_ might’ve been involved with the Russian- Why would he be? Braginsky was an _oaf_ . Angélique only deserved men who had _some_ decency. Feliciano was sure of this.

Angélique quirked a brow at Feliciano’s prying. How rude of him. She pushed up her glasses and looked him over before she spoke again.

“These are matters that don’t involve _you_ , Feliciano.”

“So it _is_ about money.” the Italian grinned “You’re a vixen, Ange, you know that? Barely in the UN and already sucking other members dry.”

Angélique stared at him, offended by his choice of words. Feliciano immediately noticed his blunder and stammered, cheeks flushed as he apologised again.

“Oh come on, I didn’t- That’s not what I meant! _Angelina_! I meant that- You know, money-wise.”

Angélique frowned and calmed her ruffled state. Feliciano could be such a _boy_ at times, spouting the wrong words at the wrong moment. He huffed and crossed his arms, looking her over as he shook his head.

“You can be so hard to talk to, at times.” he muttered.

The small woman shrugged and took another sip of her cappuccino, setting it down and licking the cream from her upper lip before she replied.

“Am I?” she asked.

“You _can be_ . Listen, I’m not trying to fight. I’m… I’m genuinely wondering why you’d want to interact with _that bear_ at all.”

Angélique looked up again and blinked at the man before her, sighing as she looked away and shrugged. She didn’t have time for this. She just wanted to finish her coffee and leave to find Ivan again. She dreaded asking around for his room number for this exact reason; people questioning her motives, as usual. Feliciano could be so nosy when he wanted to be…

“It’s none of your concern.” she told him softly, hoping he’d get a hint sooner than later.

Clearly, the Italian was having none of it. Stubborn bastard that he was, he leaned forward and gave her another _look_. Angélique looked back up to him sternly, drumming her manicured nails on the table before she raised her brows at him.

“That man’s dangerous, _tesoro_ ,” he cooed, trying to get her to simmer down. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“Will you stop babying me?” hissed Angélique, setting her now-empty coffee cup aside. “I’m a grown woman. I can decide who I interact with.”

Feliciano sighed and rubbed the back of his neck before he gave a shrug and forced a grin for the little lady before him. She was just as stubborn as he was, sometimes.

“ _Va_ _bene_. You go tend to... whatever business you need to tend to with Russia. I have a conference this afternoon- How about coffee later on?”

“ _You_ have a conference?” Angélique quipped almost mockingly, blinking in exaggerated disbelief. Feliciano frowned at that, clearly annoyed with her tone.

“Believe it or not, some university students here need information on the Risorgimento. They needed me to give a talk about...” he waved a hand. “You don’t care, do you?”  

“I just wanted to thank you for the information I _actually_ asked you for, _caro_ ,” she told him as she held the card he had written information on between her fingers. She then stood up and straightened her skirt, smoothing the creases in it before she turned back to Feliciano and looked down on him, shoulders slumping a little when she saw the look he was giving her.

“I’ll be careful, alright?”

Feliciano sighed and nodded. What else could he do?

“... So. Coffee, later?”

“Perhaps.” Angélique told him softly, kissing him on each cheek to say goodbye. “Maybe this afternoon?”

Feliciano nodded and watched as Angélique left, her hips swaying slightly as she made her way towards the front door of the hotel’s café. He looked away as soon as she slipped out of his sight.

Shoulders slumping back down, he called for a waitress and ordered himself an espresso. He could deal with horrendous American coffee for a moment, now, couldn't he?

Despite everything, he hoped Angélique wouldn’t get herself tangled up in something unreasonable.


	7. You lost it all, you lost your heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A double whammy! Along with my [Valentine's Day one-shot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13684644), have an update for Your Ex-Lover is Dead! 
> 
> Ivan returns and hesitation rears its ugly mug to come slow things down. I like making readers suffer ♥  
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! Things will speed up after this one, I promise ♥
> 
>  _For reference:_ There was actually no Russian consulate in New York until 1994. No scene there for this fic, then! Interestingly enough, the absence of Russian consulates in the US is due to Jimmy Carter's policies back in the 1980s. 
> 
> Anywho! Thank you Blue for proofreading! ♥ You're amazing! 
> 
> Enjoy! ♥
> 
>  **21.03.2018 EDIT:** I'm changing up the direction I was initially taking this fic. This chapter has a different ending, leading to a different outcome in the next chapters. Re-read this and enjoy the ride! ♥

Ivan wasn’t exactly a morning person but, when duty called, he couldn't exactly stay away from it. 

He had gone to bed with the bitter taste of regret on his tongue. Oh,  _ why _ did he kiss her? Why did he do that, why did he believe that would work? The worst part of it all was that he had forgotten his bottle of Stoli in her room. A damn shame. He would have wanted to drink himself into a stupor to forget about his foolish endeavors. The way he and Angélique had argued, the way they fought, the way they kissed…

It was a mistake. She surely wanted nothing to do with him now. 

In an attempt to forget his own guilt, he decided to actually be productive. He had paperwork to read over and he had to call the Kremlin to give a quick report- there was no embassy for him to go to in New York. His kind wasn’t welcome in this city, after all. He remembered the previous day’s humiliation of being rejected by goddamn _ taxi drivers _ over the mere fact that they knew he was Russian. 

One would’ve expected a driver to be called for a national representative, but apparently, that wasn’t included the budget. All the money went to his hotel room and plane ticket- And even then, the hotel was provided by the UN.  

He used the hotel room’s phone.

It was probably late afternoon in Moscow. He knew this not because of his knowledge of time zones, but rather the tired drone that tainted the voice of the man on the other side. The exchange was quick, cordial, and efficient. Ivan missed the days where he’d feel warmth emanating from the voices of his comrades. But it was all over, now. Ruined. Destroyed. 

His dreams had been crushed a long time ago. It was the beginning of a new era and, as usual, Ivan simply had to follow. 

It left a bitter taste in his mouth. This change. This transition from one regime to another. It reminded him of the pain he had felt all those years ago. 

He remembered the revolution, the fire, the fury- the blood of the Romanovs dripping from his hands.

Shaking his head to avoid those wretched thoughts, Ivan let go of the phone and paced around the room, hands in his pockets as he muttered to himself. Once he got to the window, he stared outside for a moment and closed the curtains. The morning’s brazen light was perhaps too much for him to bear. 

Suddenly, it came back to him- He hadn’t asked about his return ticket. Ivan could pay for one, of course, but he’d have to find the next plane to Moscow as soon as possible. He really didn’t feel like calling back right now. He’d do it later. 

He needed fresh air.

Central Park was just downstairs. Surely, he could go for a stroll, look around, not interact with anybody and keep a low profile- Yes. That sounded like a good idea.    
Putting on his scarf and shrugging on his jacket, he made his way towards the door, his large hand twisting the knob, swinging the door open only to find that someone was already on the other side. 

Holding a small card between her lithe fingers, Angélique stood there, three doors down from Germany’s room. She had flinched when the door opened, only to sigh in relief when she found out who was there. Feliciano hadn’t lied to her- This  _ was  _ Ivan’s room.

“Angé-  _ Monaco _ . What are you doing here?” asked Ivan, a confused expression on his worn face “Isn’t your room upstairs?” 

“You could at least say hello,” retorted the small woman, slipping her card back into her purse. Manners were important to her. 

She hadn’t changed. 

Ivan looked down on her and tugged at his jacket, closing the buttons as he sighed and looked away from her. 

“Why are you here?”

“I told you I wanted to see you again, didn’t I?” 

The Russian stared for a moment, blinking before he looked down each corridor, the one down his left, the one down his right. No one was there. No one was listening in on them. 

Still, Ivan was wary. The past years had taught him to be careful when discussing sensitive subjects out in the open. 

Angélique, however, wasn't exactly accustomed to this constant state of wariness- or, at least, not to the extent of Ivan’s own struggles. She saw no qualms in talking to him in public… Even though their present conversation was relatively private. No one was  _ there _ , after all.

“I told you last night. It’s not reasonable. A girl like you…” 

“What’s the matter?” quipped the small woman, a hand going to her hip. Ivan frowned. 

“ _ You _ have an image to keep up… I’m not good for that. What happened last night should not have happened.” 

Angélique’s face nearly dropped. What on earth was he on about? Surely he didn't intend on brushing it all under the carpet, as though nothing had ever happened?  She refused to believe it.    
With a pained look on her face, she stared back up with an expression that reminded Ivan all too much of a petulant little girl who had been refused a new toy. Endearing yet entitled, and above all  _ pitiful _ .

He felt bad for a moment. It was true, they had kissed last night. He had felt the searing burn of desire take over him once again… but he knew it had to be a phase. He wasn't good for her. He would only end up hurting her. It would be for the best if he avoided her altogether. 

Angélique, however, was having none of it. 

“You kissed me.” She accused.

“ _ Nyet _ .  _ You _ kissed  _ me _ .” He retorted, cheeks a little flushed. “But this isn't about that. We’ve both made mistakes in the past and…” he sighed, looking down the corridor again, “I’m not here to fight you. I don't want to fight you, or anybody else. I have no reason to.” 

Angélique pouted, brows knit together before she decided she’d pull out the ace she had up her sleeve. 

“Well there’s a fifty dollar worth bottle of Stoli sitting in my suite, on the coffee table, that I can’t drink,” she told him in a biting tone before she softened her voice. ”You forgot it there.”

Ivan blinked at that. Of course- that’s where he set the bottle down. What an  _ idiot _ . He could leave it, though, couldn't he? Forget the ridiculously expensive vodka. Forget Miss Monaco’s suite. Forget the kisses and forget the bittersweet memories-

He could refuse. Abandon it all. 

He couldn't. 

“... What do you expect from me?” Ivan asked hesitantly, tugging at his scarf. Angélique stared up at him and bit her lip, feeling herself tremble a little as she uttered her request.

“I wanted to spend some time with you.” she told him, holding her hands together “Have some drinks, go out for dinner-”

“I can't exactly count your expensive tastes as a business expense,” Ivan muttered, pulling the pocket of his trousers inside out. Nothing was there. “And besides, I’m busy today.”

Angélique looked him over, studying what he wore before she spoke again. “Are you going to your embassy?”

Ivan shook his head.

“We haven't had a consulate in New York since the eighties. I… I was going to get some fresh air, that's all.” 

“May I come with you?” 

The Russian frowned slightly, shaking his head. 

“I need to be alone. I just- I wish to be alone for now.”

As he said those words, he placed a hand on Angélique’s precious head, his thumb stroking her hair as she looked up to him with that same pitiful, girlish expression as before. Her heart pounded in her chest when he stroked her hair like he had once done decades ago… She rarely let anyone pet her that way. She found it demeaning, at times, but with Ivan it was different. She wouldn’t snap at him for that. Not now. 

Looking back down, she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. If he wanted to be alone, she’d have to go with it. 

“There’s… There’s always the reception tonight in the grand hall. Will you be there?”

“Wasn’t that supposed to be last night?” 

Angélique shook her head. “No,” she said, “America had it moved to tonight instead. You know him.”  

Ivan sighed. To think he had hidden in the lounge the previous evening to hide from that event… Even if he was a member, he felt as though he wasn’t exactly welcome in the UN. Even if he had found an old friend there.

He was slowly warming up to the idea of reconnecting with her. UN meetings were made for that, weren’t they? For the Nations to form closer bonds. For Ivan to join the others, once again, despite the odds. 

He just had to go. 

“I’ll be there.”

As he spoke, Angélique seemed relieved and, on impulse, came closer to give him a quick hug, only letting go when he placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“Someone could see you.” Ivan muttered, cheeks a little flushed as he remembered how  _ right  _ her body felt against his own. 

“Nobody’s here.” 

“It’s for the best. For now,” he told her before he cleared his throat and closed the door to his room behind him, stepping away from it, and from Angélique, before he vaguely motioned in direction of the elevators. “I’ll see you tonight, then.” 

“I’ll be there,” she replied, pushing up her glasses. 

Ivan nodded and walked over to call the elevator, stepping inside once he straightened his posture and looked over his shoulder. He observed Angélique from where he stood. She seemed to be writing something on the card she was holding. Once she looked back up, the elevator’s doors slid shut. 

She looked forward to the night that was to come. 


	8. And you won't look back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh boy am I _late_ with this update! My apologies to anyone who has been waiting for this, ah... ;v; 
> 
> This was hard to push out, in all honesty, but I'm glad it's written and available for posting! Thank you so much for reading if you've gotten this far! :D
> 
> Again, thank you Blue for proofreading!! 
> 
> AND AAAAH GOOD NEWS EVERYBODY, WE'RE A FEW CHAPTERS AWAY FROM THE EPILOGUE ♥ Let's go!! Enjoy! 
> 
> Also, if you're enjoying this fic, consider reblogging [this post](https://baguettewrites.tumblr.com/post/172696732722/your-ex-lover-is-dead-read-on-ao3-ongoing) to share it around!! ouo
> 
> Love, Baguette ♥

There were many things that contributed to Angélique’s anxiety- her gambling addiction, the stakes her business partners set for her, her absolute fear of irrelevance and oblivion, and on top of those things, the callous attitude her ex-lover presented earlier that day. It had filled her with dread until the evening came. 

Applying her regular shade of burgundy lipstick, the small woman contemplated the way she should approach Ivan at the reception- She could feel her hands shaking. She had been so sweet and engaging with Ivan earlier. She had hoped he’d return the attention despite his obvious issues. Those negative thoughts swirled in her mind and ruined her day. She was nervous and fidgeting even when she went out for coffee with Feliciano…    
Perhaps Angélique was selfish to believe he actually still cared about her, that the previous night’s kiss was more than just an impulsive endeavour, that she was still entitled to his affections after all these years. 

Men. Men were all the same, weren’t they? Often did she wonder why she allowed them to affect her in such ways…

All she hoped was that Ivan would have the decency to at least show up. 

Pulling her cream-coloured shawl around her shoulders again, she finally decided to leave her suite. She slipped on her heels and glanced one last time in the mirror to make sure that her hair was perfectly pinned up, that her makeup was still as precise as the moment she put it on, and that her glasses still remained in place, perched upon her little nose. With an approving nod, she slipped away, closing the door behind her before she headed towards the elevators, then down a corridor towards the venue where other Nations had congregated. 

Angélique made her way through the room, glancing here and there, looking around at the familiar faces she had seen before countless times, along with other less familiar ones- Perhaps partners for future business-related endeavours, who knew? She didn’t seek them out for now, though. She wanted to find someone… 

She graciously avoided Feliciano who had been worried sick after her strange attitude from both this morning and at their little coffee date later that afternoon. She’d eventually explain everything to him… If she actually came to talk to him, of course. Later. Always later. 

Though she was focused on looking for Ivan, she still allowed herself some idle chatter with other Nations. Switzerland came to congratulate her on her gained status in the UN and rather stoically told her he ‘looked forward’ to seeing her in Geneva. Angélique thought to herself that she should teach that man how to express emotions, some day…    
Other nations and conversations came and went, first Belgium, then Spain, and later France who rather patronizingly praised her for her progress while still holding back the grudge he had developed back in ‘62.

“You’ve grown into such a fine young woman,  _ mon ange _ .” he cooed at her, holding his glass up to her. Angélique forced a smile. She knew how he felt about her joining the UN. He wasn’t happy. At all. 

“Yes, well… Thank you. Really,” she told him, pushing up her glasses. “I have to go.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, gently holding her arm “You can stay with me a few minutes, can’t you?” 

“François, you’re very sweet but-” she peeled his hand off of her arm. “I’m looking for someone.”

She picked up a glass of wine, pressing it to her lips as she slipped away from the Frenchman and continued to scan the room, her eyes darting immediately up a flight of stairs that led to the mezzanine. Of course. She’d have a better view from up there. 

Once she managed to climb the stairs, she looked out to the floor below, brows knit together as she tried to find Ivan- It shouldn’t be this complicated, as imposing a man as he was… 

Still, nothing. She felt her heart sink and her blood boil, almost ready to cry out of sheer frustration. How could he stand her up like this?    
Holding the railing of the mezzanine with one hand, she felt like throwing a childish fit. Why didn’t he come? Why…  _ Why  _ didn’t he come? Why didn’t he-

“Angie, is that you?” 

Oh. Oh God. 

Forcing herself back into a more demure position, Angélique turned back to the voice that called to her- with that  _ stupid  _ American drawl and that  _ stupid  _ nickname she had told that man to avoid using- Still, he kept going. He probably thought he was charming. 

“Alfred. I didn’t expect to see you here,” she told the American, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 

“Why wouldn’t I be here? I’m hosting the party, after all!” he told her with a toothy grin “I’m glad you could make it- Y’know, that was a pretty impressive speech you did yesterday.”

Angélique blinked a little. He was complimenting her? And it seemed genuine? How odd. 

“... What do you want?” she asked suspiciously, turning to fully face him. He simply looked her over with a bit of a boyish grin, a blush on his cheeks when he actually realised how cold her tone was. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

“Uh. Nothing. I’m being polite- well, trying to,” he told her, scratching the back of his head. “And you just got into the UN. I thought I should-”

“Express your congratulations?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

Angélique sighed and looked up to the younger Nation, then back down. He didn’t warrant her cattiness, even if she had indulged in talking smack about him to Ivan… They had been involved back in the fifties and let their relationship fade away as soon as Alfred had better things to take care of. He let go of her when he no longer needed a trophy wife for the cameras. She remembered that. 

“... Listen, Angie. I know we don’t get to talk a whole lot. I just saw you and wanted to say hi.” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets “Is there anything wrong with wanting to say hi to your ex?” 

The woman sighed again, “I suppose not,” she replied, “I’ve just been distracted these past few days. Nothing important. I’m sorry if my attitude isn’t exactly the most agreeable one.” 

She wasn’t really all that sorry. 

Alfred, for once, felt how tense their conversation was. He wasn’t sure what he did wrong or if he could do anything about it, but he wanted to at least  _ try _ . 

“You know, I’d offer you a cig if I had any. I know that calms your nerves.”

“You remember that?” 

“Uh-huh,” he said with a nod, glancing over to the open doors that led to the seemingly empty balcony. “I remember a lotta things! Though...  I’m trying to quit smoking. I’ve been clean of it for a few weeks now!”

“Congratulations.” 

Now that he mentioned it, she could have gone for a cigarette or two. To  _ calm her nerves _ .    
Alfred had rolled up his left sleeve, showing off what seemed like a large band-aid, grinning at her as he advertised the product like the proper businessman he fancied himself to be nowadays. 

“It’s a nicotine patch. You get your fix without smoking- It’s what’s helping me quit. You should try it sometime.” 

“Maybe I will… or,  _ maybe _ I’ll just smoke instead.” she told him with a nod. 

“Sure thing, Angie. Just… Don’t go on the balcony, will you?” he warned her, nodding over to the doors again “Commie’s outside with a flask. I dunno why he bothered to come.”

“Com- You mean Russia, right?” 

“Yeah, he’s out there. Don’t get too close, ok? He’s dangerous. Might send you to the gulags if you’re not careful.” 

Angélique frowned a little. She was relieved Ivan was there, but Alfred’s words irritated her more than anything.    
The younger Nation gulped as he watched her look over to the balcony- He didn’t need anyone to get into trouble here and now… And besides, if anybody was going to bother Ivan the Red, it would be  _ him _ .

“You just… Enjoy the party, ok?” he told her, clasping a hand on her frail shoulder, leaning over as he used to do when they were involved and expected a performative cheek smooch for the cameras. For old times’ sake. 

Angélique didn’t respond, however. She sighed again and looked up to him, placing a hand on his upper arm and giving him a pat, a polite smile on her painted lips as she waited for him to pull away. 

Alfred didn’t quite understand why the small woman was being so distant. He understood that their relationship was a thing of the past (after all, he was the one who put an end to it) and he supposed she might’ve been embarrassed to see him again under such circumstances, but… then again, he wasn't any good at reading the room, even when he tried. 

So, instead of embarrassing himself by being presumptuous, he stepped away.

“... Right. I’ll catch you later, Angie.”

Nodding, the small woman waved him off and sighed shakily, a hand going to her hair as she swallowed the rest of her wine. She immediately looked over to the balcony, plucking her packet of cigarettes from her clutch purse as she stood in the doorway, glancing around only to find Ivan hidden in a corner close to the wall, looking out to the vast expanse of the New York skyline with his metal flask in his hand. 

He had helped himself to his room’s mini-bar. Whiskey. It wasn't his preferred poison, but it would do. It was something to soothe him as he stood alone.

His heart was presently in the pit of his guts and he couldn’t help but stay there, alone, in silence, asking himself why he even bothered to show up. Did Angélique truly affect him as much as that… He didn’t want to believe it. All this, after all these years- He was confused. He didn’t know what he wanted to do. All he wanted was to prove to himself that Angélique wouldn’t bother coming, just so he could give himself an excuse to leave. 

Surely she’d stay away. He saw the dirty looks he had been given as he walked in, he noticed how everybody avoided the balcony the moment he stepped out onto it. It angered him… It made him sad. 

He didn’t blame Angélique for not showing up. He wouldn’t- he  _ couldn’t _ . 

Why would Angélique even bother coming along-

“ _ Ivan _ .” 

The Russian didn't move at first, only registering that he had been spoken to a few seconds after Angélique had called to him.

She watched him from where she stood, unsure whether or not it would have been wise to speak to him- he had promised he’d be here, of course, but he seemed so reluctant to interact with her… She had to have closure. She wanted it.

“Ivan…”

This time he turned around, a hand on the stone railing of the balcony, his tired eyes meeting her own when she dared to step closer. He gave an acknowledging nod before he turned back to the void of the city below, patting the railing at his side, silently inviting her to join him in his solitude. 

“You always were stubborn,  _ zaika _ ,” he grumbled before he took a sip from his flask. 

Angélique came close, lips pressed together into a slight pout as she settled her hands on the stone before her.

“I’ve been told,” she replied, cursing herself for letting her voice tremble, “but then again, so are you. Look at you…” she gestured to him. “Standing outside here all alone when you could be mingling with others.” 

“Are you sure you weren't on another planet for the past fifty years?” he asked her rather sardonically. Shaking his head, he continued. ”They all hate me out there. Even those who were in the Union. With reason. I’m a failure.”

Angélique looked up to him with wide eyes, only averting her gaze when he sighed. Teeth clenched, she frowned and straightened herself, deciding she had enough of this.

“I don’t hate you.” She told him “Not anymore.”

Ivan snorted “So you  _ did  _ hate me. Why? Because I’m a  _ filthy  _ communist?”

“No. Because you never replied to my letters, you left me worried sick about you until François eventually told me you’d never come back to me again. I hated you because you never said goodbye. I never had any political motives- if anything, you hated me because I remained a monarchist.” 

Ivan sighed. Angélique… was selfish in a rather childish way. She didn't think of the world below her ivory tower. It was something Ivan had believed was charming, all those years ago. She was his solace, his respite, something sweet to hold and cherish to forget the hurling winds of the wars at their doorstep. She would stroke his hair and kiss his forehead, reminding him that he was  _ good _ . 

He was a  _ good man _ .

In her eyes, he did no wrong, only right, because she only cared for how he cherished her rather than how he abused others. He was a good man… to her. Ivan’s guilt was irrelevant when it came to what she saw, what she wanted. He was her lover and she was his. All was good. All was well.

The Russian dared to look back down on her and how the gentle lights of the balcony shone in her blonde hair and caressed her precious face. He noticed how her hands shook, how she seemed frustrated to be denied his touch, his warmth. 

“... I want my lover back, Ivan,” she mumbled, daring to hold onto his sleeve. “Why must you deny me this way? Can’t you see I’m tired? One moment you admit your wounds and fears to me, and the next you’re barking and glaring like a hellhound- I’m scared,” she gasped.    
“I thought you had come back to me last night. We… we kissed,” she told him firmly, now, pulling on his sleeve in an attempt to drag him closer to her level. 

“We did kiss,” replied Ivan, a blush creeping on his cheeks. “And I told you it was a mistake. Angélique- Why are you staying with me?” 

Angélique frowned, furious that he was still going in circles with this. Tugging at his sleeve again, she lowered her hands to his wrist, then his own hand. She felt tears welling up as she looked to the marble floor beneath them and closed her eyes when she came closer. Craving his affections, feeling herself growing more and more desperate by the second, she brought Ivan’s huge hand to her cheek before she nuzzled it. If he’d pull away, she’d know it was over, all over. 

She preferred being chased rather than being the huntress, herself… Yet here she was, desperately trying to take a hold of Ivan once more, if only for old times’ sake. 

For old times’ sake, she wanted him back. 

Only mildly surprised by the small woman’s sudden and, frankly, quite forward move, Ivan stayed there and stared down at her, watching her nuzzle his hand for comfort before he stroked her cheek with his large, calloused thumb. 

“ _ Zaika moya… _ ” he dared to whisper before he looked away, eyes on the door to the balcony before he pulled her in for a hug, kissing the top of her head, “We shouldn’t be seen here,” he muttered against her hair.

“Do you think they even care?” she snapped, “They forget you because you’re a convenient antagonist. They forget me because I’m irrelevant. We should just escape,” she told him as she now placed her hand on his waist, little fingers tugging at the sides of his suit.    
“We should just hide from them and kiss again. And  _ again _ . I want you to  _ kiss me _ , Ivan, is that too much to ask?” 

She crashed against him and buried her face in his chest, shaking a little from how blunt her confession had been. The Russian tensed up a little and hugged her back, feeling his heart swell as he held her small body against his own, his hands growing acquainted with her curves again, her warmth, her delicate frame-    
There were many things he wanted to do to her. Not just kisses, no,  _ more _ , far more than that-

For now, however, he bent over and kissed her. His lips pressed against her own, holding her precious head as he kissed her again and again, a familiar warmth taking over his body as he dared to pick her up and hold her close. 

Oh, there it was. That warmth. That delicious warmth that soothed him. It wasn’t love, no, they were no longer lovers… They were kindred broken souls who had found each other again. Whether they were lovers or not, only time could tell. It could be a matter of years… 

Or, perhaps, a matter of minutes. 


End file.
